Gratitude
by Deep Roller
Summary: Sansa tries to express her gratitude, to her frustration. Sweet lord, there's a chapter two. Three...shot?
1. Chapter 1

Gratitude

A/N: What does any sane, sensible girl do when canon doesn't work out her way? Write fanfiction and pretend everything is set right, of course! There'll be another chapter after this one, I'm afraid.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is George RR Martin's, and I make no profit and intend no ill will. I merely reject his reality and substitute my own.

An hour she lay in darkness, her heart and her mind waging as fierce a battle as any being fought on the ground outside her window. Clinging to the cloak like it was her only friend in the world, she cowered on the floor, not daring to move. One hand crept up along her neck, fingers brushing up her collarbone to the pulse at her throat. So recently had she felt the cold press of a blade, just there where her thumb rested now. How could she go with him? He had threatened her life! He was terrifying and dangerously unpredictable.

_ And your life is quite safe here, to be sure_, she told herself almost sarcastically. With the smell of him all around her shoulders as she hunched in his cloak, Sansa could almost imagine it was the Hound himself talking to her, still lurking outside her door._ Have you opened your window recently? That's not an autumn breeze rolling in._

Still, she trembled on the floor, each shout or clang of metal causing her to duck her shoulders and her head deeper into the fabric. She was safe here, much safer than on the road. Especially on the road with the Hound. There was no telling what he might do to her once he got her...

_ Alone? Is that what you're thinking? You honestly think that you weren't utterly alone up here in this godsforsaken room of yours? That them fighting the battle out there were going to drop their weapons and rush to the defense of some maiden in peril?_

_ The Hound would've, if it were someone else hurting me, _she argued meekly against herself, the realization washing over her slowly._ He left off protecting Joffrey to ride to me when the mob was going to get me, he...oh...OH...I've made a terrible mistake!_

Rising like a wraith from the floor as her heart cried victory over her frightened mind, Sansa raced straight from her room, heading for the stables. Running as though she had been lit ablaze by a passing torch, she spared no time for niceties such as gathering provisions or pulling on shoes. The stable was mostly deserted, nearly every horse with four legs and strong back having been scrounged for the battle. Somehow, they had missed her mare, perhaps because the little chestnut was too small a mount for even the half-grown boys who had been all but pressganged to defend their homestead.

As Sansa was trying with trembling fingers to fasten the girth, she heard a horrifying crack close by. A beam came clattering down near her mare's feet, all afire with a ghastly greenish flame. Her mare screamed and staggered sideways, nearly knocking Sansa off her feet. The stable's only other occupant, a gray muzzled, one-eyed destrier, was pounding frantically at the door of his stall, his eye bright with terror in the gloom of the stable. Another beam fell presently, this one tossing tiny tongues of flame out onto surrounding straw.

The mare screamed again, throwing her head up and backwards and pulling the reins through Sansa's fingers. The destrier shrieked in fear as fire began to eat into the back of his stall. Without thinking, Sansa ran over and yanked at the bolt to the stall door. The metal's heat seared into her fingers and she cried out, but did not let go, tugging until the bolt came free and the horse barreled past her and into the night. Her horse was still standing splay-legged before the flames, too transfixed to flee. Possessed of a grace born from utter terror, Sansa launched herself onto her mare's back and heeled the palfrey out of the burning barn.

She didn't look back once, keeping her eyes forward as she galloped her mare out of the seven hells themselves. Fire was everything, fire and the shout and corpse-stink of men. Hands and faces swam up from the ground to snatch at the cloaked figure as it raced away down the road, heading for the dark, cool safety of the trees. Stricken men moaning for mercy tumbled into her path, reaching for her horse. Her mare steered around the obstacles with ease, Sansa clinging for dear life as the horse leapt this way and that, running all the while.

One ragged dash around a man cleaved in two by an axe sent her mare shouldering into another presumably fleeing horse and rider. Sansa shrieked in alarm, the sound lost to the cacophony of the night as she kicked out in fear, nearly unseating herself for her trouble. In the next second she and the palfrey had leaped away and were tearing down the road once more, the sound of pursuing hoofbeats growing fainter as Sansa's mare fled with the swiftness of a fox gone to ground.

She could smell herself; ashses, burnt hair, burnt cloth and horse lather. Any semblance of path or road were forgotten as she strove to put as much distance between herself and King's Landing as possible. It was only as the urgent nearness of the battle dimmed and the trees loomed taller did she begin to feel anything other than relief.

Someone coughed, and it startled her until she realized it was she who was coughing, and that her lungs burned with every breath. Her feet were bare, raw and aching, as were her hands. She couldn't see her fingers clearly, but they throbbed and cried out where she held the reins. Her curls were burnt, one still smoking faintly, where sparks had leapt into her hair. The ends of the Hound's cloak had been singed, but nothing more. The Hound, she thought afresh, suddenly aware that she had left with the intent to ride him down and beg him to forgive her foolishness in not accepting his protection.

He had said where he would be heading, but her flight had chased the memory of his words clean away. Now she was out in the forest with nothing save her horse and her wits. Her horse was exhausted and laboring to breathe, while her wits were as frayed as an old rug. Breathing faster in her panic made her coughing start afresh, and she clung to her mare's mane, the rough horse hair against her fingers making her wince. Without much thought to direction, she guided the horse toward a clearing, the vague notion of bedding down within it the only thing in her head.

It was a fairly large clearing, the sinister glow of battle light casting its features a sickly orange-green. She had ridden leagues away from King's Landing, but the fires still seemed to chase her. They didn't know where she was, though, there was that. Tucked away in the forest, a fast horse away from everyone who would do her harm, she was safe. And yet, she felt as though she were being watched, followed. But it couldn't be! No one could catch her, not on her fast little mare, made all the faster in their terror-fueled flight. No, she had come too far! She was as safe as a wolf in the forest now. She-

_ Wolves._

The feeling of being watched increased as chills began to race along her arms. Her mare snorted uneasily, but Sansa knew the poor creature was far too tired to run even another five feet.

_ That's why they've come, girl. They know you're tired, weak. They've come to eat you up._

Eyes, there were eyes everywhere, coming through the trees. These wolves were not like her beloved Lady, they were lean, ragged killers. Their eyes glowed orange-green as they advanced on her horse, dark shapes in the uncertain light. It all happened in a whirl of movement. One of the wolves advanced at a leisurely pace as her mare spun around to take one last, desperate flight. Sansa was pulled sharply from the saddle, her hands clawing at the leather to keep her seat. Then the beasts began to tug at her cloak and she snarled with surprising ferocity in protest of this, hands flying to grip the cloak, pull it back. She thought she heard an odd, quavery voice call out in alarm, but it drowned in the ferocious growl of a hungry wolf. Sansa's eyes rolled back into her head, the words "oh dear, oh DEAR" chasing her into blackness.

Her dreams were uneasy, and she fretted against them. She and Arya were standing in a weed-choked field beneath an iron grey sky, arguing as usual. Between them, someone had staked a gaunt, tortured looking dog. Arya was holding a water bowl just out of the dog's reach, the creature slumped on its haunches and eyeing Arya with resigned malice. "Arya, give it water!" Sansa called to her sister pleadingly.

"No!" Arya swung away, spilling some water and turning to stick her tongue out at Sansa. "Never, never, never. It can die."

"ARYA!" But Arya was gone, and the water with her. Sansa sank to her knees in distress, starting to cry as she realized what she had done. She had certainly done something terrible, perhaps the most terrible thing that could ever be done. The dog dragged itself to the end of its chain to wash the tears from her face, its tongue rasping against her cheek. Sansa cried for her family, for the dog, and for herself, until her eyes and her throat grew dry.

The ground beneath her began to shake violently and she found herself looking up into the grey faces of a host ten-thousand strong. Leading them all, with Lady at his side, was her father. She rose to her feet in joy, prepared to run and envelop them both in one expansive embrace. Her father's gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her, his face wreathed in sadness.

"I don't understand," she said plaintively to him, reaching up to try and hug him. He caught her hands instead, trapping them and squeezing her fingers gently. She looked from his hands to his face, trying not to yelp when she saw that around his neck was a deep, finger-width ring of drying blood and gristle. "Father, I don't understand." she said again, tears beginning afresh as his hands squeezed her own tighter, his eyes growing sadder by the second. Her hands were tender and she struggled to free them from her father's ever tightening grasp.

"Hold her," a voice spoke from the midst of the host. The sky began to split open, the ground beneath the feet of the legion of grey horses and grey men yawning open. Her hands were still held tightly as her father pulled her inexorably downwards. Lady looked up at her accusingly, the wolf sitting perfectly still as the ground swallowed her up.

"Let me go! Let me go! Let...GO!" Sansa yanked backwards as the sky became blindingly bright and the ground dropped away completely.

"Easy there," a voice soothed as a wrinkled palm settled cooly against her brow. "Easy now, girl, or these bandages won't do their trick." The voice was somehow familiar, and Sansa quieted enough to properly open her eyes. She was in a small, airy room constructed mostly of rough-hewn wood. Her sleeping place was little more than a pallet of straw, with blankets to keep it comfortable. Her gaze met that of a stooped, hook-nosed old fellow who had been in the middle of binding up her hand.

"Where am I?" She croaked, coughing heavily. Looking down, she was somehow unsurprised to find herself with an iron grip on her bloodstained white cloak. How it had survived being torn to pieces, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that it felt right to hold onto it, so hold onto it she did, higging it closer against herself.

"Nalwy's farm, 'nd I'm Nalwy," the man said cheerfully. "You gave us quite a scare, y'know. Me'n my family, we're quiet folk, we're not used t'fancy folk and their fancy horses riding into our midst."

"How far...how far from King's Landing am I?" She was afraid of the answer, afraid it wasn't far enough.

"King's Landing? Oh, a good day's ride, I'd say. You never came from King's Landing?"

"I...was just curious," she finished, looking down at her hands. The fingers on her left hand were red and blistered, while her right palm had been practically branded where she had pushed it against the metal bolt, her skin broken and weeping. That was what Nalwy had been trying to bandage, the linens pressing too painfully against the wounds for comfort. Willing herself to hold still as he spread her palm with a stinging, biting liquid and then bandaged it, she hissed between clenched teeth.

"If you're able t'be out and up, break your fast with us," Nalwy offered as he finished his work. "There's not much in times like these, accourse, but we've got some for travelers like yourselves."

"You are too kind," Sansa said, rising to follow him. Halfway to the door, she realized she was still dressed in her ragged, soot-stained garments. Nalwy looked back and seemed to realize the same thing.

"Urtha's things are far too big for you, but my son Dranon's old things should do," he said as he turned to rummage in a trunk near the doorway. Fetching up a pair of breeches and a homespun shirt, he left them on the pallet of straw. "Just come down the stairs when you've changed."

"Wait!" Sansa called after him, remembering the night before, and the wolves. "What of my horse?"

"A nice little palfrey, she's tucked into the sheepfold. Getting quite the spoiling from Dranon, she is. A bit tired, but her wind's not broken."

"She didn't even get bitten?" Sansa asked in surprise, sure the wolves had done for her little mare, To hear the palfrey was fine filled her with relief, and not just because she'd soon have to make use of the mare again.

"No, no! Dranon got bitten, of course, and I got a bite or two myself for my trouble, but the creature left her well alone." Nalwy scowled at a memory Sansa couldn't see.

"Oh no! You were bitten? The wounds aren't grave, I hope. Is Dranon terribly wounded? Will he live?" The thought that her shelterers had been attacked while fighting wolves off of her filled her with guilt.

"Of course he will, my lady, of course," Nalwy laughed, much to Sansa's shock. "We're tough folk out here, we can handle ourselves against nastier things, to be sure. Come now, it's time to break your fast." And with that, Nalwy closed the door to let her dress in peace.

She pulled her ruined dress away, kicking it into the corner like a vile old skin. Nalwy had left her boy's smallclothes, and as her own were in a state worse than sorry, she sighed and took them. Her loaned clothing was too big, the shirt billowy and the pants needing to be rolled up several times. Somehow the boots were a better match to her size, and her feet seemed to weep in relief when they did not have to endure bare ground anymore. She donned the cloak last, loathe to be without the feeling of security it gave her.

Though Nalwy had said her horse was fine, Sansa became obsessed with the idea of saddling her mare and riding out again. They could be out looking for her right now. Even if they weren't looking for _her_, there could still be trouble afoot, this close to King's Landing as she was. Tiptoeing out of the small room she had been nestled in, she limped through into the main room of the small farmhouse, hoping to sneak out without being noticed.

"All up and about, my dear? Good, good," a loud, brassy voice called out to her, heralding the arrival of a woman easily as wide as Ned Stark's sword Ice was long. The woman's face was shiny and ruddy under a mop of white hair, her hands awhirl as she stirred something in a bowl. "But what's this? Not _this _old thing," she said in despair, gesturing to the cloak at Sansa's shoulders.

"It keeps me warm," Sansa replied, looking back at the woman with something akin to stubbornness in her eyes. About wearing this cloak, she would never budge. Wolves could not even tear it from her back.

"Very well, dear," Urtha sighed in resignation. "Come, break your fast with us."

"I'd like permission to go and attend to my horse, my lady," Sansa said with a curtsy.

"You've been asleep a day, girl. You need food in you!" Urtha protested, stirring harder in her insistence.

A day? A _day_? They could be on this farm, so close to her, she needed to leave! Now! Willing herself to be calm, she curtsied again, an odd thing to do in breeches and a shirt.

"Apologies, my lady. I wish only to see my mare, as she was a gift from my father and is very dear to me." Mention of her father brought forth her dream, and the thought of seeing him still sad and wounded brought a tear to her eye.

"Heavens, girl! I didna mean to cause you distress. Go, see to that horse of yours." Urtha gave her a gentle nudge toward the sheepfold. Loathe as she was to leave these nice people, Sansa knew she had no choice. She didn't want them in the way, didn't want them to suffer should Joff decide they were guilty of helping her. She pushed open the door to the barn and walked in, squinting in the dim light. Her mare loomed large in one of the stalls, but when she approached, the horse flattened its ears and bared its teeth.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, realizing that this wasn't her horse at all, it was much larger and quite the wrong color. A glad whinny came from the next stall over, and Sansa ran toward her mare without another thought, throwing her arms around the chestnut's neck. She kissed the horse's throatlatch again and again, proclaiming the mare to be the most beautiful, the most fantastic, the best horse in all of Westeros.

"I carried you the last bit of the way to this damned farm, where's _my _gratitude?" Sansa was so startled by the voice that she fairly leapt into the air, causing both horses to spook.

"I..."

"Went and got yourself lost, yes. A fine job you did of it too." Sandor Clegane stepped around his horse, pushing his stallion's head back into the stall with casual affection as he walked toward Sansa.

"How did you find me?" Sansa asked, her throat gone dry as she took an unconscious step toward him.

"Didn't have to, you ran right into me. Nearly fell and cracked that pretty little head of yours when you did, too. That'd be a shame, all those nice words spilling out of your ears and onto the cobblestones. You left a fine trail after that, that cloak's a better beacon than a torch to follow. What in seven hells, girl?" Sandor rasped in a voice more puzzled than irritated, for Sansa had closed the rest of the gap between them in a rush. She was looking him over urgently, poking and prying at each arm and shoulder with gentle fingers that tried to creep into the crevices of his armor. She walked around him to peer at his back, and he twisted his head around to follow her movements.

"You're not hurt! You fought off those wolves, and not even a scratch," she said wonderingly, amazed that not even his mail or boiled leather had been disrupted.

"Wolves? What wolves?"

"The wolves, they surrounded me and pulled me off of my horse. They-" But she was cut off as Sandor roared in laughter, spooking the horses afresh with his outburst as his mirth doubled him over. "I see nothing funn-" Her words were lost in a fresh bout of laughing, until she was glaring at him in irritation and confusion while he pounded the nearest stall door, shaking his head and howling in pure amusement.

"THESE are your wolves, girl!" Sandor said when he could speak with some composure again, gesturing to the sheep chewing cud peacefully in their fold.

"I don't understand," Sansa muttered grumpily, scowling at one of the sheep when it looked up at her and bleated.

"You ran right into this farmer and his loose sheep herd night before last. Scared the old bugger out of his mind, too. He thought you were a wight, his boy was going to put a crossbow bolt through your heart. Stupid smallfolk, they don't have any eyes to see what's in front of them. They thought I was come to reap their souls, as much a mess as I was. There's more truth there, I'll give them that. Broke the crowssbow in half and nearly did the same to the boy when he thought to cross me. Even though you were nearly falling off your horse, you fought me like a bloody shadowcat when I got you down. Thought you were going to ruin the other side of my face, I did."

"I thought you were a wolf," Sansa murmured, feeling quite embarassed with herself. _He broke a crossbow in half? A CROSSBOW? _She was so distracted by imagining such a feat that she missed a bit of what he was telling her.

"-horse was too tired to go another step, what did you do, beat her with a flail? I've never seen a horse run so fast for so long as that."

"The fire scared her, scared us both. The barn began burning when I was saddling her." She shuddered at the memory, looking down at her bandaged hands. Sandor seemed to notice them for the first time as well, snagging both of her wrists as though doing so were an afterthought. His grip was shockingly light, as though her hands were made of delicate glass that he was mindful not to break. He trailed a finger across the palm that was not bandaged, and Sansa sucked in a breath.

"Were you trying to put it out with your bare hands? Putting out fire that way always goes ill, little bird," Sandor said ruefully, running a forefinger along her knuckles.

"There was another horse in the barn, it was trapped and its stall caught fire. I couldn't leave it...the bolt, the metal of the bolt was hot, but I didn't feel it until afterwards."

"How noble of you. Perhaps they ought to make a song about it. 'The Little Bird Who Saved the Horse'. Or maybe...'The Little Bird Who Was Eaten By Sheep'." His sharply mocking words were quite at odds with the soft, langorous way his hands were now straying up her forearms. Her borrowed shirt was so loose and voluminous that he was able to slide his hands beneath the sleeves, against her skin. "Why did the little bird suddenly decide she wanted to run away and save horses?"

"I was trying to find you, to tell you I changed my mind and..." It was just the slightest bit hard for Sansa to form words when his hands was resting solidly on her shoulders, his fingers splayed out along her shoulderblades and thumbs treading the border of her collarbone as they brushed lightly back and forth. _He broke a crossbow with those hands,_ she thought, shivering. "I should have come with you from the start." She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears she was struggling fiercely not to shed. "You are and ever have been the only one who can keep me safe, I was stupid to think otherwise."

His hands slid upward along her neck until they were framing her face. She leaned and rubbed her cheek against one hand, her tears sliding down over his fingers. She pressed his hands closer against her face with her own,even as her wounds cried out in protest.

With a sort of hesitancy she would never have dreamed possible in one such as Sandor Clegane (but then, who would think him possible of any of the gentleness he had ever shown her?), he leaned forward and kissed the top of her forehead. Her eyes fluttered closed and she sighed, her breath a hot puff of air against his palm. He stepped back at this as though she had caught fire. Looking up in dismay, Sansa stepped toward him again.

"We'll break the fast with these folk, then we'll ride out again," he said gruffly, clearing his throat. When she continued to look at him with a solemn expression, he grumbled. "Aren't you going to ask where we're going?"

"It doesn't matter. If it's away from King's Landing, it doesn't matter."

"What about your family? Don't you care about them?"

"If I can find them, Joff can find me." Sandor held his tongue from saying that Joff would have a good deal more to worry about than one wayward little bird.

"And me? What if I don't want to have a little bird perched at my side, singing nonsense into my ear as I ride along?" The look of panic and terror that crossed her face at this made him swear. She reached up to cling to his shoulder in supplication. His ropy, steel-strong muscles tensed at this touch.

"Please, I'll be quiet, I'll be good. I'll do anything you say, anything." He stepped back to keep her at arm's length, swearing again.

"Damn you to the seven hells, girl," he growled, his eyes glinting in frustration as he stared at her. "You've no notion of what you do to me when you say those words." She dropped her gaze to the ground, but on the way down her eyes flickered for just a fraction of a second, long enough that Sandor thought she might have _some _idea of what, exactly, she was doing to him.

"You mean, you wouldnt-" she couldn't even finish the sentence, not sure of how it might come out.

"I wouldn't," he said bitterly. "I could have a hundred times by now if I had wanted to, and I DID want to, but I wouldn't."

"Why not?" This time when he pounded his fist against the boards of the barn, the wood broke cleanly in two, making Sansa jump.

"Because," he said with a short, barking laugh as though that settled things.

"Because of Joff? Because he thought I was his?" Sansa pressed.

"Do you think I give any fucks at all about that whelp or what he considers to be his?" Sansa surmised that, from his tone, Clegane did not. "Drop it, would you?"

"Is it because you think I'm too young? I know things..."

"Drop it, I said!"

"I just want to know," Sansa said innocently, taking a wicked sort of joy in frustrating him. She found herself wishing he would put his hand on her shoulder again. When he looked at her, she gasped at the barely restrained anger and hurt in every line of his face.

"You want to know. The little bird wants to know, does she? Well, my little bird. _Sansa. _I'll tell you. I'll gladly make a whore do my bidding, just as she'll gladly do it for the coin in the bargain. What does it matter how she looks at me for it? Rutting is all it is, and men forever have their needs and their wants."

He knelt down, his voice soft and full of a hurt so raw she wondered that he wasn't bleeding from it. "Sometimes a man wants things he cannot have. A right and proper little lady who shies away from his touch even as she invites it. When he's frightening enough to such a lady without the thought of things like bedding, well," his snort of derision was answered by a snort from Stranger, "it's best not to speak of it. Scaring a little bird with such things, with the idea of me. Her heart would fly right out of her chest and break into pieces on the ground. You could have your way with such a creature, if your way was all you wanted. She'd be mine, oh yes, but she wouldn't be. She'd be just as useless as if she'd stayed in King's Landing, then."

Sansa could only gape at him, unable to marshal any words, and felt strangely as though she were drowning. Sandor snarled in the face of her silence and rose, turning away from her and stalking out of the barn. He called over his shoulder, "We're breaking our fast and then getting the fuck out of here. Be ready."

* * *

><p>He had called a halt that night against Sansa's protests. She had wanted to keep going, and had spent most of the day's ride looking over her shoulder like a hunted rabbit. They had left the farm and set out at a walk, to her frustration. She protested that pursuers could be right behind them, waiting to pounce.<p>

"And if we run, it will give them all the more reason for them to pursue us, if they're even out looking for stragglers at all. It doesn't matter, if there's anyone chasing, they'll be dead when they find us." The idea of his killing anyone that came upon them would have shocked and horrified Sansa even four days ago. But that Sansa had not huddled in desolation on the floor nor galloped up a road choked with bodies as dying men tried to do her harm.

The spot he had chosen was a ways up from a game trail, shrouded in trees and providing a good vantage point of the road down below and the surrounding countryside. Sansa couldn't have said where they were or where they were headed, but felt a decided lack of curiosity for both considerations.

They untacked the horses and made camp in silence. Sansa held up a handful of tinder, trying to catch his eye with her question. Clegane barely looked at her, but grunted his acquisence to a fire being made before going to inspect the horses' legs. Sansa built up and fed the small fire, hugging herself and gazing into it sullenly. When Sandor came to join her, she looked up hopefully, but sighed when he went and sat across the way, pulling a dagger from his belt to sharpen with a stone.

Gazing into the fire, Sansa toyed with a lock of her hair, frowning as she felt the charred end of it. It looked so terrible in the daylight, the blackened ends of several locks making it seem as though she might be mangy, perhaps. Standing resolutely, she walked around the fire. Sandor raised his eyes and his eyebrow when a shadow fell across the steel. When she gestured for the dagger, he chuckled and shook his head. "Having second thoughts? Want to cut my throat now, do you?" He asked, holding the dagger high when she would reach for it.

"My hair, it's all burnt in places, if you saw. If I cut it...I'll look less like anyone who might be being looked for,"

"There's sense in that, but you'll cut your ear off if you try to do it yourself. This blade is too sharp to be waving it about where you can't see what's what. Here," he motioned her down in front of him. She knelt facing away from him, brushing her hair back off of her shoulders and looking straight ahead. "Hold still," he cautioned, tilting her head forward so that she looked at the ground. He swept all of her hair into his grip, his hand settling at the nape of her neck. He felt her shiver just slightly, and he nearly sliced the back of her neck open when the feeling of it against his skin made him jump.

Her head was suddenly much lighter, and she turned to find Sandor with a great handful of singed red hair that he tossed into the fire. It kicked up an awful stench, but was better than leaving it behind, perhaps to be found and puzzled over later. Shaking her head to accustom herself to the strangeness of it, she patted at the hair still on her head. It was a bit choppy and straggled to just beneath her earlobes, but it no longer smelled of char and smoke. She imagined she looked a good deal less like herself, the thought not as troubling as it might have been.

A great jaw-cracking yawn broke from her, and she went to her saddle packs to fetch her bedroll, making it halfway there before remembering that she had not packed one, nor taken one from Nalwy's farm. Perhaps Sandor would share his? The thought brought a flush to her cheeks, one that was not purely embarassment.

"Put out the fire, get in your bedroll, and I'll take first watch. And second," Sandor commanded when she rejoined him.

"I didn't bring a bedroll," Sansa said, hoping to prompt the suggestion from him.

"Then take mine," he snapped. "Take mine and go to sleep, would you?"

"I can take first watch," she persisted, "or second. I slept for a day, and I'm not tired."

"This is going to be a very difficult trip if you don't do as I say, when I say it," he growled, bearing down on her.

"No, it will be a difficult trip if you don't let me help when I say I can help. You'll wear yourself down and then where will we be?" Sansa countered, looking back at him almost fearlessly. Her impatience with his ridiculousness was making her impervious to his intimidations. He moved off and she looked after him, raising her chin in triumph for a moment before something soft and heavy was tossed at her. The fire was doused a moment after that, the camp gone dark in an instant.

"Sleep." His voice was reassuring in the darkness, "If you don't stir when I wake you for second watch, I'll throw the rest of this water on you."

Curling into his bedroll, she heard him walk off a few paces and could barely discern his outline hovering at the edge of their camp. Her eyelids fluttered down and she resisted, fearing whatever dreams lurked in the darkness. But she was helpless against sleep and it pulled her down once again.

* * *

><p>Coming awake in an instant, she wasn't sure how much time had passed. Lying in the darkness, she forgot for a moment exactly where she was and felt a stab of panic. Kicking free of her bedroll, she remembered all in a rush the day's ride, the fire, and the Hound standing watch. *Sandor*, she thought to herself, picking her way delicately through the camp to reach him. She'd show him, coming to find him before he could think to wake her up.<p>

For one frightening second, she thought he was dead, until she saw him breathe. He was leaning against a tree, head tilted back and arms slack at his sides. No wonder, she thought to herself, remembering that that morning Nalwy had said Sandor had stayed stubbornly at her bedside until she had begun to wake, at which point he had asked if she would survive. On getting an affirmation, he had gone to the stable. Had he been about to leave her, then? The thought made her mad, that for all he had wanted to take her away, he'd leave her at that farm house. Why wouldn't he want to stay and take her with him? She knelt down, looking at his sleeping face and reflecting that even in his sleep there was a scowl on his brow to rival that of any merlin she had ever flown.

He hadn't dragged her with him the first time when he easily could have, he had been about to leave her behind a second time...why? It was obvious that he cared about her, why wouldn't he take her with him? His words in the sheepfold had been nagging at her, but she couldn't think of them without thinking about the way he had looked at her with so much anguish. The thought twisted her heart, she had not known one person was capable of holding all of that pain inside of them.

Not saying anything back to him had probably only confirmed his belief that she was afraid of him, but what _could _she say to such admissions as he had made? That she somehow knew that even if she traveled the world she'd probably never find someone else who would tell her all of the truth of things? That she had learned a lesson or two in the Red Keep about fair faces and knightly honor at the cuff of a fist and the pommel of a sword? That him saying he wanted all of her, not just the part that he could possess with his body, called to mind great romantic songs?

He _did_ want to claim her, that was plain as day. Maybe she wanted him to make that claim. If his hands had been making a promise in the sheepfold, more and more she wanted to see him keep that promise. Scooting forward on her knees until she was right up next to him, she lightly slid her lips along his left temple, not shying from the twisted, scarred flesh. Leaning forward unbalanced her, and she braced herself lightly against his shoulder. A hand shot out and gripped her upper arm, his eyes luminous in the dark as they fixed on her.

"Second watch," she managed to say.

"Bugger that, what do you think you're doing?"

"You asked earlier for your gratitude," Sansa said matter-of-factly. "I fear I have been most deplorably rude in showing it. My apologies that it took so long, ser."

"Don't call me-" He didn't get to finish, for she was leaning on him in earnest now, pressing her mouth to his clumsily, in the way only someone who had never kissed before could manage. She pulled back and looked at him defiantly, daring him to send her away now. When he didn't move, she tilted her head and began kissing at his neck in little pecks that made him laugh aloud. "You even kiss like a little bird," he said when she frowned at him.

He shouldered her away and rose to his feet against her cry of dismay. "Where are you going?" Sansa called after him, getting unsteadily to her feet to follow.

"To sleep. You've got the watch, remember? Here," he turned and pressed the dagger into her palm. "In case any more wolves come." With that, he made his way to his bedroll and turned away from her.

She made a face into the darkness at his back before turning and stabbing the dagger into the tree nearest her. What need did she have for such a silly thing when she had Sandor Clegane sleeping three paces away?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: The formatting is still wonky, so faint horizontal lines separate the sections, which is driving me nuts. In that vein, does it bother anyone else that the 'S' isn't capitalized in the category "A song of Ice and Fire"? Just me? Hmm...

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to George RR Martin, I'm just borrowing them to make them do my bidding, as can plainly be seen. All time is fuzzy. :)

* * *

><p>Hot breath on the back of his neck pulled Sandor fully from his already uneasy sleep. He knew it was that pesky girl again, trying to taunt him into doing something he was quite sure she'd regret when it was too late. He turned over quickly, fully prepared to scare her into jumping backwards. Instead it was Stranger's wicked dark eyes and black angular face that he came nose to nose with.<p>

He let the fact that it wasn't Sansa at his back with her lips on his neck disappoint him for a moment before he sat up to gather his wits about him. Stranger nearly walked right over the top of him, the stallion standing on Sandor's bedroll and nibbling at his shirt.

"He got loose," the little bird complained from somewhere nearby.

"He'll do that," Clegane agreed, rising to his feet and leading Stranger to a tree to tie him again. "Did you try to catch him?" The disgruntled expression on her face told him she had indeed, and he chuckled to see it.

"If you're awake, does that mean we'll be going soon?" She asked hopefully, her eyes flicking back to her already tacked horse. The idea of riding out again reminded him that he had no clue where exactly they were going. Somehow, going north seemed to make the most sense, and the rest would follow after. In the north, it was much harder for things to catch fire.

"And where does the little bird think she's flying to?" He asked as he reached for his saddle and one-armed it easily onto Stranger's back.

"I told you, anywhere away from here."

"Back to your little nest at Winterfell?" He tightened the girth and barked a guttural noise of dissent at Stranger when the stallion pinned his ears and lifted a hind leg threateningly.

"No, not Winterfell, not there. At least, not for awhile. I don't want...I don't want anyone finding me." Such a silly little thing, she seemed to think the entire population of the Red Keep knew she was missing and was out looking only for her. Perhaps he wouldn't disabuse her of that notion quite yet, as it might save her from doing something rash.

"We will ride north, though," he said with finality, marvelling that for all she warbled her constant questions, she didn't seem to care about where the hell they were going.

"North," she repeated, saying the word as though it were a short prayer.

* * *

><p>It was midafternoon, as they made their way along the kingsroad, when they were caught in a sudden flurry.<p>

"Snow?" Sansa asked in confusion, holding out her palm and collecting a small drift of salt and pepper flakes on bandages now soiled and fraying.

"I wouldn't be trying to catch it on my tongue, little bird, unless you like the taste of dead men." When she gave him a puzzled look, he rolled his eyes. "All that burning back there, homes and ships and men? The ashes must have caught a good breeze out of King's Landing to be this far out . You're probably holding some poor soul hostage right now," he said with a smirk. She recoiled a bit, brushing the ashes off hastily.

"Only cowards fight with fire," she said, catching his eye as she spoke. He turned his head slightly, legging his horse a pace ahead. It unnerved him when she looked straight at him, and unbalanced him. Before, he would go out of his way to force her eyes onto his face, and to watch her withdraw from it. He believed in sharing the wealth of his ugliness and giving everyone a good long look at it. He scoffed at the idea of hiding away or wailing about such things as couldn't be undone. If he had to live with himself, why should anyone else be spared?

Why he had always made such a point of making HER look, he couldn't have said. His ability to scare folk away gave him a sort of power over his gods-cursed face, that he could make them turn away before he saw them turn away on their own. When she looked right at him of her own accord, he could feel that power ebb. He turned back and leered at her, but she only gazed at him knowingly, her eyes solemn. Damn her.

The travel was quiet for a time, the only sound that of hooves striking the hard packed surface of the kingsroad with a regular, hypnotically soothing rhythm. On the very rare occaisions that anyone passed them in either direction, Sansa would tense up and tug at the hood of the cloak Urtha had given her. She might as well have screamed 'I'm hiding from something' to whoever was riding by.

She had wanted to wear the white cloak, the one he had left behind when he should have snatched her up. After a rather graphic description of what might be done to her should anyone the wrong folk see her wearing it, Sansa had readily taken Urtha's proffered dark brown cloak. Stubbornly, she donned it over the white one, and no amount of talk about pillywinks or being drawn and quartered would shrug the once-white thing from her shoulders.

She needn't have worried about hiding, of course. Most of the folk passing on the kingsroad kept their eyes down and their business to themselves. No one wanted to be called out. it was why he had chosen to ride the kingsroad over keeping to the trails they had taken the first day. The more you looked as though you were hiding, the more attention you drew to yourself.

A gentle hum snuck into his thoughts, luring him away from them and back to the road. His little bird was singing quietly to herself, her head tilted back and her eyes half closed. The song was one he'd heard often enough in the more boisterous inns and taverns he had frequented, though it was strange to hear it sung in so gentle and plaintive a tone.

_"And do, she said_  
><em>Do come to me<em>  
><em>As often as you like<em>  
><em>For I have weathered all alone<em>  
><em>A night upon the Pyke<em>

_If you bring your lance, she said_  
><em>You'll win a maiden fair<em>  
><em>The man who next sees this place<em>  
><em> Will find no maiden there."<em>

He knew by the way she sang it that she had no inclination whatsoever of its true origins. In all the times he'd heard the song, certain words were emphasized and paired with lascivious gesturing, while roaring laughter followed each chorus. "Who taught you such a song?" He called over to her, startling her from her reverie.

"My father's ward, Theon Greyjoy. He taught it to me when I was five." Sandor laughed to think of the smirking iron whelp teaching bawdy songs to children for the fun of it. "I always thought it was such a pretty song, I'm as surprised as you that he knew it. I suppose it is funny, a boy knowing such a pretty song as that."

"I'm not surprised he knew it, I'm more surprised that you did." He didn't elaborate, not wishing to answer another volley of questions. "At least it's not that Mother hymn."

"Yes, well, I do remember more songs when there's not a knife to my throat," Sansa said quietly, adding, "and I like to think I sing a bit better then as well."

"Then what the hell did you stop singing for?" He snapped back at her, earning an infuriatingly patient smile for his trouble.

"You could have taken me that night," she mused after a moment, ignoring his question."You didn't. Why?"

"I was too drunk to piss, let alone fuck."

"I don't think it was that at all. You're not drunk now, after all." Why was she nattering on about this? It should have been relief enough to her that he hadn't held her down and had her until she was bruised and sobbing before dragging her away with him by the hair. She had to keep worrying over it like a crow over entrails.

"Unfortunately for me," he growled, grinding his teeth.

"You said before, in the barn-"

"Leave off what I said in the barn." Sandor cursed himself for an idiot when that came to mind. It wasn't the first time he'd gone and said stupid things to the little bird under press of strong drink or a lack of sleep. There had been the time before the tourney, when he found himself telling her things he'd told virtually no one else. And after he had, she'd stood beside him, whispering her consolations in the darkness.

"I think it was quite honorable, what you said there," she murmured quietly.

"Oh, bollocks," he groaned, exasperated with her and her foolish notions of courtly love and honor. Had getting the shit beaten out of her at the Red Keep truly taught her nothing? "Girl, if your only idea of an honorable person is someone who hasn't yet harmed you, then you're sillier than I thought. There's not a scrap of me that's honorable," he said defensively, proudly even.

"An honorable person doesn't harm others when they have the chance, and they tell the truth, when they have every means to lie. When everyone is lying to you and harming you, what else is there to believe in?" Her eyes were soft and sad in a way that transcended tears.

"This," Sandor said, reaching across his body to unsheath his sword. "No one can hurt you if you hurt them first, and there's nothing like a blade to bring the truth out of someone. Bugger the gods, old AND new, if you've got steel in your hand and a strong arm to swing it, that's all you need to believe in."

"As you say," Sansa agreed quietly, averting her eyes and fidgeting with one of her bandages. He looked at her properly then, for the first time since he'd carried her on foot up to the backwoods little farm she had passed out near. Her boy's garb and artlessly hacked-off hair weren't the only things that had changed about her, he saw now.

She met his eyes and his words in a way he knew she wouldn't have dared back in the courtyards and hallways of the Red Keep. However, she wasn't so tremendously different otherwise, still insisting on irritating courtesies, thanking him for stupid things like stopping and waiting while she went and pissed behind a tree. Now, though, when he laughed at her or derided her courtesy, she'd often chirp curiously at him and step nearer as though expecting breadcrumbs to fall from his hands.

"Dusk'll be on us soon. We'll run a stretch, at the next fork in the road there's a village with an inn. " _And a tavern,_ he thought to himself.

"Is it safe? We're still awfully close to King's Landing," she said. Fretting, she reached up to twine her fingers in hair that no longer fell over her shoulder. His answer was to drop back a pace and slap her mare's rump with the flat of his blade. The little thing half-reared and then took off, Sansa yelping in surprise as she clamored to gather rein. Shaking his head in amusement, he sheathed his sword and then legged Stranger after her.

* * *

><p>Her mare was much faster than Stranger, and Sandor knew she didn't try especially hard to make sure the stallion kept up. Only when the road forked into two did she slow, uncertain which path to take. The road sign at the fork wouldn't give her any clue, it had been made for illiterate smallfolk and contained only crude, indiscernable pictures. When he came upon her, he saw tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes as she stared at the signs.<p>

Hearing his approach, she turned and wiped her eyes, trying to marshal her tears back in. As she swiped her hand across her face, he caught sight of the blood that had soaked entirely through the bandages. Dismounting, he came to her as she held up her palms in protestation. Taking her gently by the waist with both hands, he swung her down and turned her to face him.

He began unravelling the bandages over her palm. As he wound down to the skin, she gasped, but bit her lip to keep from crying out. When the bandages stuck to the now ragged skin, she couldn't stop herself and shrieked in pain. The tender, blistered skin had been sawed through by the leather of the reins, the bandages settling nicely into the ravines of flesh. Placing one hand on her shoulder to brace her, he tugged the last bit of linen free.

"How long has this been hurting you?"

"Since this morning," she admitted, crying openly with obvious relief. "I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. It used to work for the other things. When...when they'd hit me, I could just ignore it and it would stop hurting."

"No, it's a special torment, burned flesh." His voice was an iron horseshoe scraping cobblestone, and when he looked at the sad and tattered remnants of Sansa's bandages, it was his own he saw. They had stuck to him with the same stubbornness, especially when his father forgot to summon the maester to have them changed. "This'll hurt, my little bird, until it heals."

"I can make it," she hiccuped through the last of her crying, "I can make it the rest of the way to the inn."

"Of course you can, we're not bloody camping out on this road. Stay right there," Sandor added as she tried morosely to get back onto her horse. He unshouldered his cloak and tore the bottom of it once, twice, and again until he had three ragged lines of fabric. "This is going to hurt," he said in a voice that was nearly sympathetic.

He rebandaged her hand awkwardly, barely noticing when her other hand clawed the air before sinking into the meat of his shoulder and digging in. He lifted her back onto the mare, pulling the horse's reins over her head and leading her over to Stranger so that he could remount. "We'll be there before full dark. Don't fall off." he called back over his shoulder as he moved forward again.

The room his coin had paid for was dismal, dank, and full of splinters. The bed sagged worse than the breasts of even the most shopworn Flea Bottom whores and he was sure that the small table beside it was home to a comfortable kingdom of rats. It wasn't even a fit place for a dog to lay his head, and yet it was probably the best room there.

At any rate, the wine was strong, which was a relief in more ways than one. He had demanded a bottle of it before they had even set foot in the inn, earning a disappointed, judging look from Sansa that said plain as day_ 'Really? Before we're even inside the doors?_' That self-righteous expression was wiped clean off her face when he peeled the bandages away, uncorked the wine and poured half the bottle over her wound, taking care that it filled the deep gouge in the center. She didn't struggle too much, but she hissed and ground her teeth.

"No more wine for you," he said with a snort of laughter as he clutched the bottle's neck and tossed the rest of the wine down his throat. He had walked her up to the room, finding himself not unpleasantly reminded of those times when he'd walk with her through the Keep.

"Bolt the door," he told her when they came to their room. "Give me the key."

"I'll wait here," she said needlessly, handing him the key and then studying his face for a moment, as though trying to make up her mind about something. The small rusting key was swallowed up in his hand, and he turned away before she could say anything else. Behind him, the door closed and there was the definitive sound of a bolt snicking into place.

Sandor Clegane was profoundly drunk by the time he made his way up the stairs once more. It hadn't been a merry experience, to be sure. He and another fellow, a frequent customer by the fellow's overly ruddy cheeks and broken veins, had huddled silently around the sputtering hearthside. Sandor drank steadily, methodically, making up for time lost on the road. First ale and then another bottle or two of the wine found a home in his belly.

He staggered up from his chair and climbed the stairs in a half-crouch. He waved the key around, fumbling it into the lock with enough noise to wake the dead. Shouldering the door open with unnecessary force, he fairly tumbled into the room. The moon was nowhere near full, but there was light enough to dimly make out the form on the bed.

Even for all that racket, she didn't wake. She had rolled into the valley at the center of the bed and lay curled there, hands drawn up to her chest. Without much care to the noise he might be making, he shucked his outer tunic, followed by the leather jerkin beneath it and the ringmail beneath that. The ringmail hit the floor heavily and she stirred, turning onto her other side and reaching across the bed with an arm and a leg.

Down to an under-shirt and breeches, he turned to regard the girl. She was stealing the entire bloody bed, so rather than try and move her, he took the torn remnants of his travel cloak and balled them up for a pillow. Lowering himself to the ground with a heavy thud and a grunt, he shut his eyes, only to open them a second later at the feeling of something brushing against his ear.

Sitting up, prepared to snag a rat with his bare hands and smash it to the floor, he looked into Sansa's sleepy face. Her fingers had been dangling over the side of the bed. "Sorry," she murmured, scooting closer to the edge of the bed to peer at him.

"Sleep, girl," he rumbled, throwing himself back down onto the floor and covering his ear for good measure. It did little good, as her fingertips danced across the back of his hand. "Can't a man sleep?"

"Why are you down there? It's cold down there."

"Because someone up there likes to take the entire bed for her damn self."

"Not anymore, I've moved," her voice said from a bit farther away. "There's room now."

"Sleep," he said with finality. For a moment, there was silence, and he thought perhaps she'd given up.

"I can't," she admitted, a bit of apprehension creeping into her voice.

"Looked like you were doing a fair job of it before I came in," he grunted.

"My dreams have been bad."

"Looking at me a day straight'll do that."

"_NO_," she said emphatically, and Sandor could almost see the frown on her face, knowing that the line that creased right between her eyebrows whenever she scowled at something would be there. "No, not you. It's dreams about Joff finding me and killing me, about Arya and...and my father."

"And what can I do about such things?"

"Whenever I had bad dreams at Winterfell, I'd wake and cry. My brother Robb's chambers were the closest to me, he heard me and he'd come and stay with me. He'd huddle in bed with me and told me if the things in my dreams came out, they'd eat him first."

"I'm not your brother." It sounded as though she was crawling back toward him and sure enough her face swam into view, pale against the darkness.

"You aren't. But I thought you were my friend."

"Friend?" He sneered into the darkness at that as he shook his head at her silliness. "Your friend?"

"Aren't you?"

"The Hound does not have friends, little bird. He is loyal, but he does not have friends."

"Sandor Clegane has one," Sansa said staunchly. His mouth quirked to the side at that, and he looked up into her face. She looked back at him plaintively, lower lip beginning to quiver.

"Seven blood drenched, rat infested, whoremongering, sheep buggering, sword spitting _hells_," he railed as he swayed to his feet. "If I lay here, will you quiet your cheeping and go the fuck to sleep?"

"Yes," she said simply, scooting back as he mostly fell onto the bed. He tried for a moment to stay on the outermost edge, but found himself rolling into the center of the feather mattress that must have been crafted when Aegon the Conqueror was losing his milk teeth.

"Sleep, then," he said to her for what felt like the hundredth time, turning his back on her. She nestled herself back to back with him, burrowing down like a terrier. He could feel every slight movement she made, and kept absolutely still himself. Within a breath, she had flipped to her other side, so that she was flush against his back. This close, he was more than aware of how she pressed against him, with naught but two layers of cloth between their skins. He shuddered, hands clenching convulsively. Damn her, damn her.

Her arm tried to slide across his ribs, as though she meant to hold him fast. Though he held himself tense, she wriggled until her hand rested on his chest. Burying her face against the back of his neck, she sighed in relief.

"If this is how your brother comforted you, it's a wonder they weren't spreading rumors about Winterfell along with the Lannisters. _My _brother never comforted me thus, thank the gods," he muttered. She made no answer, having fallen almost immediately asleep.

Eventually, he followed her.

* * *

><p>AN: Okay, I lied. Seems as though I'm not done writing this tale of OOCness and shipping, unfortunately for anyone silly enough to come across this. If you HAVE come across this, you're as doomed as any character in an ASOIAF prolouge. Sorry. Be on the lookout for...a chapter three! EL GASPO!


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